The Measure of a Man

"You are taking advantage of me, John. I will not talk more with you this morning."

"Then good morning."

He spoke curtly and went away with the words. Love and anger strove in his heart, but before he reached his horse, he ran rapidly back. He found Jane still standing in the empty breakfast-room; her hands were listlessly dropped and she was lost in an unhappy reverie.

"Jane," he cried, "forgive me. You gave me a breakfast in Paradise this morning. I shall never forget it. Good-bye, love." He would have kissed her, but she turned her head aside and did not answer him a word. Yet she was longing for his kiss and his words were music in her heart. But that is the way with women; they wound themselves six times out of the half-dozen wrongs of which they complain.

The next moment she was sorry, Oh, so sorry, that she had sent the man she loved to an exhausting day of thought and work with an aching pain in his heart and his mental powers dulled. She had taken all joy and hope out of his life and left him to fight his way through the hard, noisy, cruel hours with anxiety and fear his only companions.

"I am so sorry! I am so sorry!" she whispered. "What was the use of making him happy for fifty-nine minutes, and then undoing it all in the sixtieth? I wish—I wish–" and she had a swift sense of wrong and shame in uttering her wish, and so let it die unspoken on her closed lips.

At the park entrance John stood still a minute; his desire was to put Bendigo to his utmost speed and quickly find out the lonely world he knew of beyond Hatton and Harlow. There he could mingle his prayer with the fresh winds of heaven and the cries of beasts and birds seeking their food from God. His flesh had been well satisfied, but Oh how hungry was his soul! It longed for a renewed sense of God's love and it longed for some word of assurance from Jane. Then there flashed across his memory the rumor of war and the clouds in the far west gathering volume and darkness every day. No, he could not run away; he must find in the fulfilling of his duty whatever consolation duty could give him, and he turned doggedly to the mill and his mail.

Once more as he lifted his mail, he had that fear of a letter from Harry which had haunted him more or less for some months. He shuffled the letters at once, searching for the delicate, disconnected writing so familiar to him and hardly knew whether its absence was not as disquieting as its presence would have been.

The mail being attended to, he sent for Greenwood and spoke to him about the likelihood of war and its consequences. Jonathan proved to be quite well informed on this subject. He said he had been on the point of speaking about buying all the cotton they could lay hands on, but thought Mr. Hatton was perhaps considering the question and not ready to move yet.

"Do you think they will come to fighting, Greenwood?" Mr. Hatton asked.

"Well, sir, if they'll only keep to cotton and such like, they'll never fire a gun, not they. But if they keep up this slavery threep, they'll fight till one side has won and the other side is clean whipped forever. Why not? That's our way, and most of them are chips of the old oak block. A hundred years or more ago we had the same question to settle and we settled it with money. It left us all nearly bankrupt, but it's better to lose guineas than good men, and the blackamoors were well satisfied, no doubt."

"How do our men and women feel, Greenwood?"

"They are all for the black men, sir. They hevn't counted the cost to themselves yet. I'll put it up to them if that is your wish, sir."

"You are nearer to them than I am, Jonathan."

"I am one o' them, sir."

"Then say the word in season when you can."

"The only word now, sir, is that Frenchy bit o' radicalism they call liberty. I told Lucius Yorke what I thought of him shouting it out in England."

"Is Yorke here?"

"He was ranting away on Hatton green last night, and his catchword and watchword was liberty, liberty, and again liberty!' He advised them to get a blue banner for their Club, and dedicate it to liberty. Then I stopped him."

"What did you say?"

"I told him to be quiet or I would make him. I told him we got beyond that word in King John's reign. I asked if he hed niver heard of the grand old English word freedom, and I said there was as much difference between freedom and liberty, as there was between right and wrong—and then I proved it to them."

"What I want to know, Greenwood, is this. Will our people be willing to shut Hatton factory for the sake of—freedom?"

"Yes, sir—every man o' them, I can't say about the women. No man can. Bad or good, they generally want things to go on as they are. If all's well for them and their children, they doan't care a snap for public rights or wrongs, except mebbe in their own parish."

"Well, Jonathan, I am going to prepare, as far as I can, for the worst. If Yorke goes too far, give him a set down and advise all our workers to try and save a little before the times come when there will be nothing to save."

"Yes, sir. That's sensible, and one here and there may happen listen to me."

Then John began to consider his own affairs, for his married life had been an expensive one and Harry also a considerable drain on his everyday resources. He was in the midst of this uncomfortable reckoning, when there was a strong decisive knock at the door. He said, "Come in," just as decisively and a tall, dark man entered—a man who did not belong to cities and narrow doorways, but whom Nature intended for the hills and her wide unplanted places. He was handsomely dressed and his long, lean, dark face had a singular attraction, so much so, that it made everything else of small importance. It was a face containing the sum of human life and sorrow, its love, and despair, and victory; the face of a man that had been and always would be a match for Fate.

John knew him at once, either by remembrance or some divination of his personality, and he rose to meet him saying, "I think you are Ralph Lugur. I am glad to see you. Sit down, sir."

"I wish that I had come on a more pleasant errand, John Hatton. I am in trouble about my daughter and her husband."

"What is wrong there?" and John asked the question a little coldly.

"You must go to London, and see what is wrong. Harry is gambling. Lucy makes no complaints, but I have eyes and ears. I need no words."

"Are you sure of what you are saying, Lugur?"

"I went and took him out of a gambling-house three days ago."

"Thank you! I will attend to the matter."

"You have no time to lose. If I told you your brother was in a burning house, what haste you would make to save him! He is in still greater danger. The first train you can get is the best train to take."

"O Harry! Harry!" cried John, as he rose and began to lock his desk and his safe.

"Harry loves and will obey you. Make haste to help him before he begins to love the sin that is now his great temptation."

"Do you know much of Harry?"

"I do and I love him. I have kept watch over him for some months. He is worth loving and worth saving. Go at once to him."

"Have you any opinion about the best means to be used in the future?"

"He must leave London and come to Hatton where he can be under your constant care. Will you accept this charge? I do not mind telling you that it is your duty. These looms and spindles any clever spinner can direct right, but it takes a soul to save a soul. You know that."

"I will be in London tonight, Mr. Lugur. You are a friend worth having. I thank you."

"Good-bye! I leave for Cardiff at once. I leave Harry with God and you—and I would not be hard with Harry."

"I shall not. I love Harry."

"You cannot help loving him. He is doing wrong, but you cannot stop loving him, and you know it was while as yet we were sinners, God loved and saved us. Good-bye, sir!"

The door closed and John turned the key and sat down for a few minutes to consider his position. This sorrow on the top of his disagreement with Jane and his anxiety about the threatened war in America called forth all his latent strength. He told himself that he must now put personal feelings aside and give his attention first of all to Harry's case, it being evidently the most urgent of the duties before him. Jane if left for a few days would no doubt be more reasonable. Greenwood could be safely left to look after Hatton mill and to buy for it all the cotton he could lay his hands on. He had not the time to visit his mother, but he wrote her a few words of explanation and as he knew Jane's parlors were full of women, he sent her the following note:

MY DEARLY LOVED WIFE,

Instant and important business takes me at a moment's notice to London. I have no time to come and see you, and solace my heart with a parting glance of your beauty, to hear your whispered good-bye, or taste the living sweetness of your kiss, but you will be constantly present with me. Waking, I shall be loving and thinking of you; sleeping I shall be dreaming of you. Dearest of all sweet, fair women, do not forget me. Let me throb with your heart and live in your constant memory. I will write you every day, and you will make all my work easy and all my hours happy if you send me a few kind words to the Charing Cross Hotel. I do not think I shall be more than three or four days absent, but however short or long the time may be, I am beyond all words,

    Your devoted husband,      
    JOHN HATTON.

This letter written, John hurried to the railway station, but in spite of express trains, it was dark when he reached London, and long after seven o'clock when he reached his brother's house. He noticed at once that the parlors were unlit and that the whole building had a dark, unprosperous, unhappy appearance. A servant woman admitted him, and almost simultaneously Lucy came running downstairs to meet him, for during the years that had passed since her marriage to Harry Hatton, Lucy had become a real sister to John and he had for her a most sincere affection.

They went into a parlor in which there had been a fire and stood talking for a few moments. But the fire was nearly out, and the girl had only left a candle on the table, and Lucy said, "I was sitting upstairs, John, beside the children. Harry told me it would be late when he returned home, so I went to the nursery. You see children are such good company. Will you go with me to the nursery? It is the girl's night out, but if you prefer to–"